An Allergy-Based Love Story

It was hard, but I've finally managed to pick FIVE FINALISTS in the Funny Fiction Contest! First up: an untitled story by appleyface. Intrigued? Read on! —Miss Marm

This is my love story. When I was five years, old, I wrote a detailed description of what my first girlfriend would look and act like on a neon yellow post-it. She had to have hair that was not any shade of black, brown, blonde, or red. Blue eyes. She had to be an expert at playing the banjo. She had to be allergic to ketchup and mustard, just like I was.

In all my seventeen years of existence, I have not been able to find one girl who matched even two of the listed criteria. I don’t know what mutation is in my brain, but I just can’t become attracted to anyone who doesn’t. Which is why I eventually decided I was going to remain single for the rest of my life. That was until I saw the girl with purple hair with eyes the color of the clear morning sky with a banjo in her lap holding a hotdog and breaking out into furious scarlet hives all over her face at my cousin Beatrice’s sweet sixteen party. I swear I would have heard violins were playing Canon in G Major or some other romantic tune sweetly if it were not for Justin Bieber’s Baby blaring in the background. The fair maiden of the grape colored mane grabbed my passing cousin’s shoulder. “These don’t happen to have ketchup or mustard, do they?” she asked frantically, waving her hotdog in Beatrice’s face. Beatrice beamed brightly.

“Of course they do! Ketchup and mustard flavored buns, you see? I didn’t want to afford any condiment stains,” she replied. Grape-hair beauty let out an anguished moan.

“I’M ALLERGIC TO KETCHUP AND MUSTARD YOU MORON,” she screamed in an angelic voice that was perfectly synchronized with the OOOOOHHH BABY BABY BABY OOOOOH’s in the background. People had begun swarming around her, gawking at her amazingly gorgeous currently-swelled-up face. I flung myself from the chair I had been sitting on towards the damsel in distress, a freakishly sharp silver hypodermic needle held delicately between my fingers. Feeling like a hero, I stabbed the rapidly swelling mass with flourish and was rewarded by another angelic scream that nearly disabled my ability to hear. I was generously rewarded by the banjo’s tuning pegs attacking my head as the love of my life smacked the vicious instrument on my head. But even worse was her darling, ear-piercing, shriek of pain that I had caused. In a second, I went from feeling like Prince Charming to Ursula, or maybe Cruella De Vil. Wait, scratch that. Those are women…although Ursula’s deep man-voice makes it kind of hard to tell. Her I-can-see-into-your-soul eyes and purple tentacles have always scared me. I once had a dream she was the cause of the end of the world. But then again, I had many dreams about the end of the world, like the one where Santa Claus was murdering everyone with a pink shovel and a Justin Bieber Barbie doll. But back to the main story. I felt like Lord Voldemort, except for the fact that I had a pretty decent nose and my name is Harry, not Tom.

“What’s your name?” she asked, attempting to turn this conversation back to normal.

“Harry.”

“POTTER?”

“My parents were hardcore fans.”

“NO WAY. My name is Ginny Weasly!”

We got married at a train station in between platform 9 and platform 10. Afterwards, we threw bottles of ketchup and mustard at Justin Bieber dolls and played the banjo at the same time (yes, it’s possible). We now live in the North Pole and are on an epic adventure to find Santa Claus and stop him from destroying the world. Our child’s name is Voldemort Potter. Unfortunately, he’s a bit of a disappointment to us considering he collects dolls that look like celebrities. Whatever. At least he hates shovels.

What do you think of the story? Did it make you laugh? Smile? Sneer? Leave your comments and constructive criticism below. And remember, s/he with the most Facebook likes wins the contest!